


Watch, and Pray

by VoidTiger



Category: Original Work
Genre: Biblical fiction, Epic Poetry, Forgiveness, Freeform, Gen, Major Character Death but he gets better, Public Humiliation, Reconciliation, but it can also look like “well what CAN I still do?”, capitol punishment, ends on a bright note, even if Hope looks like denial, grief and closure, sometimes hope is something you give yourself, stages of grief, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidTiger/pseuds/VoidTiger
Summary: How do you deal with the results of your mistake? By keeping your dying friend’s last request by any means you still can.





	Watch, and Pray

“I do not know that man!”

Around the courtyard my voice rang.

Stunned silence replied as they all stared and froze,

A silence soon broken by a cock’s crow.

 

The words hung in a cloud of noxious breath.

Taunting at how I could not retract them and undo this mess!

Immediately I remembered my words from before, and his past reply,

And found myself longing for the earth to swallow me whole that I might die!

 

He turned to face me through the window.

His blindfold knocked loose from a previous blow

Saliva dripped from his hair and brow

But I could not meet his gaze, not now.

 

Stricken, I turned on my heel and fled.

Aware of nothing, save that I wished that I were dead!

My arms pushed past the mob and servants as I ran blind.

Their shouts of startled indignation pursued me from behind.

 

_“Slap, smack!”_ went my sandaled feet against packed earth and stone

_“Slap, smack!”_ my mind replayed as I ran into the night alone.

_“Slap, smack!”_ bounced the sword against my thigh.

_“Slap, smack! Slap, smack!”_ only increased with speed as I raged inside.

 

At Mount Olive’s slope my wandering feet would finally still.

To Gethsemane, where the world turned mad, crumbled, and fell.

“Watch and pray,” not even a day ago I heard him say.

But I had not listened. I fell asleep, and then ran away.

 

I had promised to stay, to fight by his side.

But ultimately, I had lied.

Fight I did, but then as a coward ran

After he allowed himself to be led like a lamb!

 

“Cut off your hand if it causes you to sin.”

His words echoed to the forefront again.

But it is not my hand or eye, but tongue.

How could I be welcome in Heaven after what I have done?

 

“Only the feet need to be washed after one has bathed.”

He said that after performing the task of a slave.

But I again stuck into my mouth my feet.

Now both are contaminated and neither clean.

 

Slowly I turned the blade over in my hand—how friendly that sword seemed!

“Those who live by the sword die by it!” Was this what he would mean?

I finally became aware of the tears flowing freely down my cheeks

And angrily hurled the sword beyond a grove of trees.

 

He knew all along, I then realized.

And I remembered what I saw when he tried to meet my eyes.

Compassion, not condemnation; love, not hate

Despite what I thought I deserved for my fate.

 

I had failed him, and deserved only the price that death would pay,

But I could still watch for the rising sun and pray.

Broken and prostrate underneath an olive tree I fell.

Alone like he was in this garden, while he was probably alone in a cell.

 

A hand urgently seized my shoulder.

I tensed at the sudden touch of the intruder.

Fear warred with hope as I blinked my watering eyes in the grey dawn

And found myself seeing the anxious face of John.

 

“They’re taking him away—to Pilate!”

I scrambled to my feet, my heart desolate.

In silence we raced to Praetorium from the mountain’s side

Neither of us dared to speak about what we might find.

 

“No fault I find in him,”

Pilate’s voice projected over the growing din.

“Away with him! Release Barabbas instead!”

Instantly I felt my heart leaden with dread.

 

_“Crack! Snap!”_  We froze at the sound.

_“Crack! Snap, crack!”_ We soon lost count.

_“Snap, crack!”_ Agonized groans and cries rose to the sky.

_“Snap, crack! Snap!”_ To my throat bile rose inside.

 

_“Hail, King of the Jews!”_ echoed the laughter we heard while waiting outside.

Out he stumbled, as if someone shoved or kicked from behind.

Arranged around a shoulder was a scarlet cloak that barely covered his waist.

Exhaustion, blood, and a briar wreath clung to his pulped face.

 

“Behold, your king!” Pilate cried.

“Away with him! Crucify!” they replied.

“What evil has he done?” Pilate demanded. “Why do you want your king to die?”

“He is no king of ours! Only Caesar!” they screamed. “Crucify him! Crucify!”

 

“I wash my hands of this! Let his blood be on you!” Pilate repealed.

“Yes, us and our children! Now crucify him!” they cried with zeal.

“So be it!” Pilate snapped before retreating inside.

“No! Pilate free him!” my companion cried.

 

Our feet shifted as the mob pushed and shoved.

From the rear we followed over dust muddied with blood.

A soldier’s shout rang over the jeering crowd.

A man passing by carried his bar to the mound.

 

A flash of light-colored cloth now patterned crimson caught my eye.

They raised his arms and stripped him as bare as the cloudless sky.

Another raised a customary flask of myrrh-mixed wine to his lips

He shook his head and raised his chin, refusing to sip.

 

They pushed him onto his back, grabbed spikes, and raised a hammer to pound

Through flesh to wood; suppressed groans and gasps his only sound

Ropes looped around his arms, lifting him from the ground.

Ropes they weaved around the stake planted firmly into the mound.

 

“Look! It’s the Temple-destroyer!”

“Ha! He doesn’t look much like a liberator!”

“If he’s really God’s son, let God save His little king!”

“You saved others! Now save yourself—and me!”

 

My jaw clenched until my teeth ached, but what could do?

He chose this, even though he was Messiah—the rightful king of the Jews.

John shook next to me, his knuckles already white.

“I’m going to find his mother. She shouldn’t be alone—it isn’t right!”

  

I stayed near the edge, unable to move away.

Could I still watch? Could I still pray?

From afar I watched his life slip.

I prayed for his death to be quick.

 

A cold wind blew dark clouds in from the east.

I shivered as the temperature dropped several degrees.

Thunder rumbled as the sky grew blacker still.

Soon I could not see the men on top of the hill.

 

 

The darkness stretched into not one hour, but three.

_“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”_

“He’s calling for Elijah! Let Elijah take him down!”

Jeering laughter erupted as a soldier raised a spongestick to his mouth.

 

The hard lump in my throat tightened as tears pricked my eyes.

Could they really have no pity at hearing his strangled cries?

If God really had forsaken him, what hope was there for me?

Slowly the storm passed, revealing the sun backlighting his tree.

 

A loud cry tore through the air.

Their bawdy mockery paused as they stared.

He inhaled a shuddering breath, exhaling it as his chest fell

His writhing ceased as his form became unnaturally still.

 

Wails and grieved shouts echoed around the hill.

A choked sob escaped my throat when he stayed deathly still.

Gradually from the mob rose a victorious cheer.

The earth shook violently, and they instead screamed fear.

 

“That man must have really been a god’s son!”

I desperately wanted to bitterly laugh that centurion to scorn.

What good that did him, and with him hope died!

I must have heard wrong. Messiah wouldn’t have been crucified.

 

But, he had been my friend, even still.

In silence I grieved, watching the hill.

I scraped together the last of my faith to pray

That somehow his body could have a decent grave.

 

Stones I hurled at the gathering buzzards.

Evening fell before my prayer was answered.

His corpse was released to two richly dressed men.

In astonishment I recognized them as Sanhedrin.

 

Slowly I retreated. Nothing more could be done.

Those of us left grieved together through the setting and rising sun.

On first-day the women left for the tomb before dawn.

Mary Magdalene returned not long after the others had gone.

 

“They’ve taken him! His body’s not there!”

For a moment all John and I could do was stare.

Then off we ran, Mary trailing behind.

We arrived at the tomb, but neither would go inside.

 

 

So I entered first, soon followed by John.

The head cloth was folded, the body gone.

John eyes widened “Could it…is he again alive?”

Not daring to hope, I shrugged and went outside.

 

John went back to the others, but I walked on alone.

I needed to think. Soon I was at Mount Olive’s slope.

Although I repented, I still couldn’t pray to be forgiven for what I’d done

Among the gnarled olive trees, I watched the colors painted by the rising sun.

 

“Peter,” called a voice I immediately recognized.

“Master!” I blubbered as my remaining tears flooded my eyes.

Jesus smiled, his own eyes moist. “I’ve already forgiven you; now forgive yourself.”

Slowly I raised my head, and allowed hope to bud and swell.

 

The others saw him that evening, well…all but one.

Thomas was absent, and refused to believe that his death was undone.

A week later, he saw for himself and grieved.

“Now you’ve seen what others cannot, stop doubting and believe.”

 

Later we returned to Galilee and to the lives left behind.

Hours we spent on the boat, but caught nothing all night.

Morning dawned. A voice called out, “Try the other side! You’ll catch more!”

Humoring him we did so. “Catch more,” indeed! Hurriedly I swam to shore.

 

“Do you love me?” he asked three times.

“Yes, Master!” I replied, heart grieving again inside.

“Nurse my lambs. Protect my sheep. Feed my sheep.”

Slowly I nodded, willing to do whatever he asked of me.

 

“Oh, and Peter…watch and pray.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for a student-led Prose&Poetry event in Fall 2012 or 2013 (...holy CRAP! Has it really been 6-7 years?!) and originally read aloud. The anomonapia bitsfor Peter’s running feet and the cracking whip were originally made by wrapping my knuckles and fingertips against the heel of the opposite hand. (I refuse to either confirm or deny if I gave myself a bloodblister that way.)
> 
> So...uh...19 yr old Tiger was kinda an edgelord. Buuuut, even then I was *kinda* a bit stubborn about giving Hope and Grief both their space. (In addition to “oh you really wanna know?” in response to growing up with this story often being heavy on the whump, angst being “selfish”, the story completely “cleaned up and sanitized” and often made “pretty” with flowery prose (Clensing Crimson Flood comes to mind—EW. Unless you’re trying to be graphic...just...don’t. The original rhetorical devices were very much intended to be “literal” to fully get the metaphorical across. There’s legit a story in John where Jesus gets so fed up he makes a cannibalism joke in reference to his future death/reused for Communion, for example.)  
> (Fun fact: hyssop branches with sponges attached were the Roman equivilant of toilet paper and passed around for reuse. EW NOPE NOPe NOPE. And the partially vinegar mixture as a poor painkiller that didn’t do much more than make you loopy vs actually dulling the pain. And the pain would only be dulled to prolong the agony—most went for DAYS vs several hours, and got nommed on by wildlife before they finally, mercifully, died. So, not one bit about the branch or drink was meant to be “kind” (and only would’ve increased dehydration, anyway. Which bleeding out sorta increases dehydration). I...also might’ve given myself nightmares while researching all of this at the time.)


End file.
